


thick as thieves

by brawlite



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol, Billy Hargrove Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Exhibitionism, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Oral Sex, Pool Sex, Steve Harrington Isn't All That Nice, Tommy H. is a Good Friend, Voyeurism, due to alcohol use, just guys being dudes, look: teenage boys don't care about getting come in a pool, probably some low-key internalized homophobia but honestly less than normal, references to neil hargrove being a shitty parent, some low-key misogyny, they're just gross it's a fact of the universe, tommy "the h is for hernandez"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 04:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21470056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: Billy’s not dumb, and Tommy’s not subtle. And Steve? Steve's just here for the view.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Tommy H./Billy Hargrove, Tommy H./Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Tommy H./Steve Harrington
Comments: 43
Kudos: 305





	thick as thieves

“It’s real cute how you think he gives a fuck about you.”

Tommy’s got this shit eating grin on his face, lips parted like some sort of wild thing, teeth bright and white.

It’s _real cute_, Billy thinks, how Tommy thinks Billy even _listens_ when he talks. Because Tommy _loves_ to talk, he loves to open up that big mouth of his and just start gabbing, like a bitch, about any and everything that flits across his vacant mind.

And it’s not that Tommy’s dumb. Sure, his grades are abysmal, but that’s only because he doesn’t care. Because when Tommy graduates high school -- _if_ he graduates high school at all -- he’s gonna work at the department just like his daddy. Just like everyone else in this town. Rumor has it he already repeated a grade back in the day, which explains why he’s always been top dog, right alongside Harrington, who had to repeat the same year. Billy isn’t sure _which_ one of them screwed up -- all he knows is that they stuck together: when one failed, so did the other, too.

So, it’s not that Tommy’s dumb -- it’s just that Tommy doesn’t really give a fuck about anything. He’s got better things to think about than grades or schoolwork or his future. He’s here to have a good time, because his whole life is already mapped out ahead of him. At some point, he’ll probably knock Carol up, they’ll get married at St. Mary’s right before she starts to show, and then Tommy’ll have to settle his ass down until Carol catches him cheating and kicks him out on his ass. Tommy knows that. He’s even _said_ as much to Billy before, when he’s been totally shitfaced and probably doesn’t even remember it.

But, the one thing Tommy _does_ give a fuck about is Harrington.

They’ve been, like _bosom-buddies _since they were in diapers, apparently.

Tommy hadn’t exactly said _back off_ when Billy showed up, fresh from the California coast, and slotted himself in right next to Steve Harrington, the reigning King of Hawkins High -- but Billy had understood the sentiment, anyway. Tommy’s real good at making himself clear.

He likes to put his arm on the back of Billy’s shoulders, like they’re friends, like they’re real tight, and tell him to _cool it, big guy_. Likes to put a hand on the back of Billy’s neck, warm and firm, and whisper in his ear to _take a walk, killer_. He likes to get up into Billy’s space, especially when Steve’s close by, like he can knock Billy off his game, like he can get him stumbling just like that.

Billy doesn’t ever stumble, because he knows how to plant his feet, but it _does_ make him bristle, because Tommy’s a real dick, because somehow he always knows _just_ what to say to make Billy’s hackles rise.

“Shut the fuck up, Hernandez,” Billy says.

They’re sitting on the side of Steve’s pool, feet dangling off the edge and into the warm water, waiting for Steve to come back outside with more booze.

The air’s hot and thick with summer, noisy with the sound of crickets and cicadas. Tommy’s sitting too close to Billy.

“It’s not _bad_, it’s just cute, is all I’m saying.”

That’s not all Tommy’s saying. And he _definitely_ isn’t saying it’s cute, either; Billy knows him well enough to know that.

“Seriously, man, shut up.” Billy’s going hot underneath the skin, knuckles itching, jaw clenching.

“Harrington, like, doesn’t _do_ friends.”

Which is bullshit, because Harrington and Tommy H. have been friends for forever, so he definitely _does_.

“_I_ do, though,” Tommy says, all nice and sweet. All summertime smiles. His thigh is hot against Billy’s, sweat beading up between the two of them from the press of skin against skin. It’s kind of gross. It makes Billy feel a little too big for his own skin. A little nuked around the edges, sticky. Warm.

“Yeah, the thing is, Hernandez? I don’t _care_,” Billy says. He doesn’t care about anything that comes out of Tommy’s big mouth.

“Come on,” Tommy says, elbow finding a place in Billy’s ribs. The jab is a little too hard. Tommy’s lucky Billy’s fist doesn’t find his freckled face in retaliation. But the summer days are long; there’s still time. “You look like you could use a friend,” Tommy says.

Billy laughs meanly. “Yeah, is that what I look like?”

The heat of Tommy’s skin is suddenly gone as Tommy slides himself into the pool. It’s an easy movement, practiced. Hernandez is on the swim team during the summers -- has been since he was seven, apparently. Billy didn’t _need_ to know that, he never asked, but it’s a small town. People just _tell_ you half the shit you know. The rest of it seeps in through osmosis, whether you wanna it or not. There are no secrets in Hawkins, Indiana.

Billy watches as Tommy blinks away the droplets of water that catch on his eyelashes. They’re dark. His eyes are dark, too, when they look up at Billy.

It’s half a surprise, half _not_, when Tommy edges himself in between the splay of Billy’s thighs. It’s more of a surprise that Tommy’s getting so up close and personal somewhere as out in the open as a backyard pool. Sure, Harrington doesn’t have too many nosy neighbors -- they’re all probably off at the country club -- but _Harrington_ himself could be back any minute.

It’s not like Billy hasn’t seen Tommy looking at him. He’s _been_ looking, ever since Billy rolled into town, like his gaze got stuck on Billy and all his California glory. Billy’d be fucking blind not to notice, that.

Billy’s heart pounds in his chest. Harrington could re-emerge out here any fucking second with more beer, and here Tommy is, edging himself between Billy’s thighs, spreading them even wider with his hands. His palms are wet. His fingers are warm against the sensitive flesh of Billy’s inner thighs.

Objectively, Tommy isn’t a bad looking guy. His lips are full, his jaw is sharp, and the freckles that dot over every inch of him -- as unignorable as they are -- are kind of charming. His personality is the worst, which is something Billy thinks is honestly kinda great. Not that he’d ever tell Tommy any of this. Not that he’d ever tell _anyone_ any of this.

“I’m a _great_ friend,” Tommy says. His eyes are real big. His eyelashes are long and thick like a girl’s. The implication hangs in the air between the two of them, heavy like a summer haze. Billy’s not dumb, and Tommy’s not subtle.

Billy’s breath gets a little caught up in his throat. “Yeah, I can see that.”

He shouldn’t let this happen.

He knows better.

But he’s already got a half chub, and it’d be impossible to hide it. Not in the short red gym shorts he’s wearing, anyway. Not that Tommy hasn’t noticed. Not that his fingers aren’t already inching up the furry insides of Billy’s thighs, actively encouraging all the blood to flow directly away from Billy’s brain and _down_.

And Tommy's mouth is looking real pretty. He's practically drooling for it, too. Licking his lips like a dog who’s about to get a piece of raw meat. Who would Billy even be, denying him like that?

Billy's a _nice_ guy, when it comes down to it. All self-sacrificing and shit.

“So,” Tommy says. He’s looking up at Billy’s face, waiting for _something_, maybe -- and then he’s not. His eyes trail down Billy’s neck, down his torso and to his crotch. Billy’s gaze follows his like a magnet. There’s no hiding his interest. His investment in this stupid situation Tommy’s gotten him into.

“So,” Billy says. Like agreement.

“Shit, Hargrove, that for me?” Tommy asks. His fingers tease at the hem of Billy’s shorts. They’re tighter now, stretched out with the way Billy’s cock has fattened up underneath them, straining against the fabric. It’s obscene looking. Just seeing his own dick like that makes Billy even harder.

“Your voice is _real_ annoying_,_” Billy says. He’s watching the way Tommy’s ears and cheeks go a little red, the way he licks at those pink lips of his. They look soft. Billy kinda wants to touch them with his fingertips. “Think you can shut up for two seconds and put your mouth to a better use?”

“You’re a real asshole, Hargrove,” Tommy says.

Billy doesn’t have a retort for him, because a second later, Tommy’s palming Billy’s cock with his still-dripping hand and all of Billy’s words get caught up in his throat, so mixed up and jumbled that nothing comes out other than a broken breath. It shouldn’t be so unexpected, but it kind of _is_. Like, sure, all the pieces were lining up just right, but Billy didn’t think Tommy’d actually _do_ it.

“Yeah?” Tommy asks, when he wraps his fingers around Billy through his shorts. He’s soaking the material of them with pool water, getting the fabric to cling to Billy’s junk. There would be no hiding what they’re doing, now -- not that Billy’s all too keen on stopping, at this point. Not that he’s even thinking about what someone else might think.

“Shit,” Billy gets out.

Billy gets his fingers up in Tommy’s hair. It’s softer than it looks, fluffy from too much chlorine this summer. He pulls it and Tommy groans, low and a little raw. His cock twitches in Tommy’s hand. He can feel himself leaking a little, precome beading up through his shorts as Tommy jerks at him.

He lets Tommy pull down the waistband of his shorts, lifting his hips up enough that Tommy can snake them down just enough to work Billy’s cock and balls out from underneath the elastic.

Tommy’s fingers are fire-hot against Billy’s skin. They’re a little calloused, but mostly soft as they work Billy over in an easy motion. He’s good at this, Billy thinks. Practiced. Billy wonders how many other guys he’s jerked off -- or if he’s just got a lot of practice on himself. He wonders, maybe, if this is Tommy’s first time.

He sucks in a sharp breath, loud into the still air, when Tommy thumbs over the head, smearing the precome that’s been gathering there. Billy shudders. Tommy grins, brilliant and bright.

“Shit, don’t stop on my account,” Steve says.

Billy freezes. He hadn’t even noticed Steve getting back. He’d been too caught up on the way Tommy looked with his freckled fingers wrapped around Billy’s thick cock. He’d been too focused on how good it felt, having someone else touch him. He hadn’t heard the slide of the screen door -- but maybe now that he thinks back on it, it had definitely been there -- just not important enough to acknowledge.

When Billy looks up, Steve’s sitting on the other side of the pool, legs in the water, beer in hand. He looks comfortable. Like maybe he’s been there for a while, long enough to have settled in.

“Hey, Stevie,” Tommy says. His touch stills, but he doesn’t take his fucking hand off of Billy’s dick. He doesn’t even turn around to look at Steve. Like he’s not at all concerned.

Billy’s first instinct is to squirm away, to flinch. He bites that urge back and keeps himself still. He keeps his eyes hard and his posture ready. He knows he’d win in a fight against Harrington if he had to; he has before.

“Seriously, don’t let me interrupt,” Steve says. He takes a sip of his beer, all fucking casual. It’s probably cold as it goes down his throat, icy and straight from the fridge. Billy watches his throat bob as he swallows.

“You don’t mind, do you, Hargrove?” Tommy asks. He looks up at Billy like he’s waiting for permission. He licks his lips with just a hint of tongue and fucking _grins_.

Billy wants to bite that grin right off of his lips. His mouth waters for the taste of blood.

His gaze shifts back to Steve.

Steve, who’s sitting on the other side of the pool, lazily kicking at the water, bringing the bottle of beer back up to his lips. He looks back at Billy and just smiles. It’s stuck somewhere between polite and savage: country-club feral.

He’s wearing gym shorts. While holding Billy’s gaze, he palms himself through them.

Billy shudders.

“Are you gonna blow me, or what?” Billy says, looking back down at Tommy. Steeling himself with a resolve he only half-feels.

“There he is,” Tommy says, pleased as punch.

He doesn’t make a production out of it. No little kitten licks, no pointless teasing. Just holds Billy’s cock still, slots his lips around it, and sucks him down.

“_Shit_,” Billy breathes out.

His hand is still in Tommy’s hair. His grip isn’t hard, isn’t forceful, but there’s a certain thrill to looking down and seeing Tommy’s head bobbing on his dick, Billy’s fingers seemingly guiding the movement of it, the motion.

Tommy’s not some bitch, though. Billy knows he doesn’t have to be gentle.

He tightens his grip and listens to the way that Tommy groans around him, shuddering at the way the sound vibrates through his cock. Tommy’s _definitely_ done this before, Billy thinks.

Across from them, Steve’s still palming himself. Billy can see it out of the corner of his eye. He knows better than to actively look.

“Knew that mouth was good for something,” Billy says. He watches the way Tommy’s ears go even redder, the way he chokes a little when Billy pushes his head _down_.

Tommy’s throat is tight. Billy closes his eyes and tips his head back, losing himself to the sensation as Tommy swallows him down. His throat is pussy-hot and his breathing is ragged, and Billy doesn’t think he’s ever had a suckjob _this_ good before. It’s like Tommy H. was fucking _made_ for sucking dick, with the way his tongue moves, with the way he only chokes a few times. With the way he’s drooling for it.

“Shit, just like that, Tommy,” Billy hears.

When Billy opens his eyes, Steve’s watching them with a dark gaze. His fingers are around his own dick, now, shorts pulled down around his pale thighs. His cock is thick in his hand, huge and fat. Billy’s mouth waters at the sight of it, even though it shouldn’t.

“You can take him deeper than that, can’t you?” Steve says to Tommy, even though his gaze is firmly meeting Billy’s. Like he’s not even watching Tommy’s head bob, like he doesn’t care about the way that Billy’s dick looks when it’s disappearing in between Tommy’s pink lips.

Billy doesn’t look down either, just looks back at Steve, unable to look away. He hears Tommy choke again, feels the way he eases Billy’s cock even deeper into his throat. Feels the way Tommy swallows around him.

A moan slips from Billy’s lips, unbidden. Embarrassing. Shame coils in his gut, hot and acidic. His fingers tighten in Tommy’s hair, grip a little too tight, a little too mean.

Tommy takes it for what it is, and keeps going.

“So fucking good,” Steve’s saying. “He’s so goddamn good at that, right?”

Billy doesn’t think he can talk without his voice breaking, without showing just how fucking turned on he is right now. With Tommy sucking him and Steve looking at him. So, he just nods.

Steve’s pace has picked up a little, fingers loose around his own cock as he talks Tommy through giving Billy head.

“Yeah, just like that,” Steve’s saying, while Billy’s eyes are caught on the pout of Steve’s lips. He wants to kiss the gleam of spit right off of them, wants to bite at them until Steve is reduced to nothing but groans. Until his bratty tone dissolves onto Billy’s tongue.

Tommy’s hands push Billy’s thighs even wider. One of them slips to his balls, fondling them as he sucks, wet and sloppy, at Billy’s dick.

Billy should be looking down at him, should be watching the way Tommy’s drooling for it -- but he can’t tear his eyes away from Steve.

He’s not even watching Steve jerk himself off -- his eyes are caught on Steve’s gaze, on the way he’s watching Billy, back.

“You gonna come down his throat, Hargrove?” Steve asks him.

Billy groans. It’s a rush, having all of Steve’s focus centered on him.

Tommy’s head bobs even faster. His grip goes a little tighter around Billy’s balls. Then, his fingers slip underneath them, sliding back until they’re pressing hard against Billy’s perineum. Digging in against nerves in just the right way.

It’s a jolt. Shocking. A touch way too close to where there _shouldn’t_ be one.

Billy gasps, groans, chokes. His hips jerk, cock fucking into the tightness of Tommy’s throat. His eyes fall closed, even though all he wants to look at is Steve.

Tommy kneads in even harder. Presses in against smooth skin in a place that makes Billy see stars.

Billy’s coming before he can even realize it, cock jerking, pleasure punching him squarely in the gut.

“Shit, baby, just like that,” Steve’s saying, but it’s muffled. Far away.

Billy feels like he’s still pulsing down Tommy’s throat when he opens his eyes. He’s got one fist in Tommy’s hair, the other clutched around the concrete lip of the pool, hard enough that the roughness feels like it’s cutting straight into his palm.

“Shit, that was so _hot_,” Steve says.

When Billy’s vision focuses, when it stops swimming, he can see Steve stroking himself lazily through his own mess, cock already softening in his fingers. Like maybe he came at the same time that Billy did.

With the haze of arousal now lifting, Billy finally tears his eyes away from Steve. He looks down at Tommy, who’s lapping at Billy’s cock like a dog, like he’s hungry to get every bit of Billy down.

Billy pulls him back by the hair. Watches the way Tommy licks at his lips, eyes glazed and glassy. He looks hot like this, used up like a fucking bitch. With his free hand, Billy thumbs over Tommy’s lower lip like he’s wanted to since this started, smearing the spit there, prying it open just to see Tommy’s pearly whites. Tommy’s mouth falls open. He sticks his tongue out, like he was fucking trained to just open up so good.

“Jesus,” Billy breathes out. Tommy’s still got the milky slick of come on his tongue. Billy thumbs over that, too. Watches the way it gathers with Tommy’s spit. So soft, so slick. He pushes his thumb in till it’s far into Tommy’s mouth, nearly choking him. Tommy lets him.

Maybe Tommy’s right, maybe he’s a better fucking friend than Billy thought.

“You gonna get yourself off?” Billy asks. He knows Steve is still watching them, but right now his attention is on Tommy, with his smart mouth and his fucked-out eyes. Billy’s pretty sure the grip he’s got on Tommy’s hair is the only thing holding him up, the only thing keeping him from drowning.

Tommy groans around Billy’s thumb, so Billy takes his thumb out and slots two fingers into Tommy’s mouth, right against his tongue. When that doesn’t seem like enough, he sticks in a third for good measure. Tommy’s lips close around his knuckles and he _sucks_. There’s drool starting to drip down his freckled chin, messy.

“Holy shit,” Steve says from across the water.

Billy fucks Tommy’s mouth while Tommy slips a hand into his own shorts under the water and starts working over his own dick. Billy can’t see it clearly, but the motions are frantic, like he’s so turned on he’s not even trying to be cool about it. Like he can’t get off fast enough.

He’s choking around Billy’s fingers when he comes, like he’s trying to swallow them down even deeper. He must’ve been so close already, just from sucking Billy’s dick. It’s one of the hottest things Billy’s ever seen. He knows he’s gonna come to this image, the _sounds_ of it, too, about a hundred times later, if not more.

Billy keeps him upright with the hand in his hair. He only slides his fingers out of Tommy’s mouth when he’s well and truly done, when Tommy starts blinking up at him with a more focused gaze.

He tries not to think about anything that just happened as he tucks himself back into his own shorts. As he offers Tommy a hand to help him out of the pool.

Steve’s lazily drinking a beer when Billy finally looks at him again. His shorts are pulled back up around his waist. His hands are clean, which means he either wiped them off on his shorts, his shirt, or cleaned them off in the water. He’s not close enough that Billy can tell. It doesn’t really matter, either way.

He tosses a beer first at Tommy, then at Billy. They’re less cold, now.

Billy guzzles his fast, thirsty. Happy for the distraction. It flows easy down his throat. He crumples the can in his fist when he finishes. It rattles against the concrete when he tosses it to the ground.

“You heading out, Hargrove?” Steve asks. Like he’s already sure of it. It’s not even a question.

Billy almost always heads out before dark. He has to be home for dinner in the summer, on the days he’s not working at the pool.

He doesn’t have to be home today. Neil’s working late. It means Billy could be out all night, if he wanted to be. But it’s weird to say that he wants to stick around, that he wants to try and press himself in around the edges of Steve’s space, into a place he so rarely is allowed. Billy doesn’t ever stay here after the sun dips below the horizon. He doesn’t get to see the way Steve looks under the moonlight or the way his face might look as he inches closer to sleep.

Still, Billy says, “Yeah.”

Steve just shrugs. A gentle roll of his shoulders, like it’s just what he expected. Blasé, like it’s just been a normal afternoon between friends. “You spending the night, Tommy?” Steve asks, turning his attention away from Billy.

Billy looks at Steve. His mouth waters. He wants to stay, too. But he doesn’t know how to change something he’s always done. Doesn’t know how to not agree with Steve, who’s already assumed for the purpose of his own plans, that Billy was dipping out.

Billy doesn’t know how to not _want_, desperate and hungry and pathetic. So he packs it away. Puts a lid on it. Reminds himself that Steve Harrington doesn’t _do_ friends. That Steve Harrington is still a pool’s-width away, and always will be.

“Yeah,” Tommy says. He watches Billy as he gulps down a mouthful of his own beer. Grins. Billy wants to punch it right off his face. Kinda wants to kiss it right off, too.

Tommy _does_ do friends, though. He’s made that one pretty clear. He’s real good at it, too.

Billy runs his fingers through his hair. Gets the volume nice and big. He doesn’t adjust the waistband of his shorts, even though it’s a little twisted. Even though he feels all disheveled and off-kilter because of it. He can fix it in the car. He can take as much time in the car as he needs to center himself again.

He nods at Tommy. Then, nods at Steve.

Tommy ducks into Billy’s space in a facsimile of a one-armed hug. He gets his pretty mouth real close to Billy’s ear and says, “It’s _real_ cute,” in a voice low enough that only Billy can hear him. A reminder, to how this whole thing started.

Billy barks out an unfriendly laugh. As he turns to leave, pulling away, he shoves Tommy back into the pool. Hernandez falls with a laugh and a shout, a flail of his arms and a big splash.

“See ya around, Hargrove,” Steve says, as the ripples are still cascading outward, as Billy lets himself slip out the back gate and toward the safe familiarity of his Camaro.

**Author's Note:**

> way cheerier than my usual shit. happy sunday; live deliciously, etc. etc. 
> 
> as always, any comments or kudos would make my day. 
> 
> i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/brawlite) and [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com), if you are so inclined.


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